Ich Dien!

These days, people bustle everywhere, rarely pausing to consider the medieval street patterns beneath their feet. Novelty and excitement seem to be their chief pursuits, yet what is so wrong with familiarity and ennui?

I often think that when I am King, I will take steps to replace tourism with good, old-fashioned academic courses in history, architecture and holistic medicine. Mummy once said that if I get rid of tourism I may find myself out of a job. My waspish reply, which came to me several days later, was "that is the story of one's life!"

Nevertheless, something must be done.

Tuesday. I have drafted a stern note, which concludes with this paragraph:

"Society is a living organism which should be nurtured holistically. Simply removing customs and institutions because they are 'old-fashioned' can lead, in my view, to a cultural disconnectedness, and the potential impoverishedness of future generations. I therefore urge you to do everything you can to help this worthwhile campaign to save and nurture (XXX). Charles."

A Footman of the Royal Correspondence is summoned to type up the epistle, replacing (XXX) where appropriate with

(fox hunting)

(traditional craft skills)

(the nation’s vast areas of privately-owned countryside)

(anything built before 1850)

(my grandmother’s remains)

(cold showers and fagging)

(most, if not all, of the Ten Commandments)

(compulsory archery practice for disadvantaged youngsters)

(the Monarchy).

My note - which I am sure will be as welcome in certain quarters as a Muslim fanatic at a Nativity play! - is then broadcast to designated recipients via the electronic mail system. Now I must brace myself for the inevitable avalanche of criticism prompted by my so-called "old-fashioned views"!

Wednesday. Not a single stinging rebuke anywhere in the press. For about the millionth time, I find myself gloomily wondering (aloud) if it's all worth it.

Snorty sighs, puts down her tack catalogue and tells me, in that Miss Jean Brodie way of hers, to bloody well buck up. Have I forgotten we’re getting married soon? She is an absolute tonic when a chap's in need of a stinging rebuke. I warmly remember one she administered last week.

“You're right, Snorts" I tell her. "I have been around long enough to see what were at the time thought of as old-fashioned ideas come into vogue...." Mischievously, she picks up the latest Vogue and asks me if I've seen their editorial about capital punishment. I maintain my look of triumph, even after she has told me she was joking.

Thursday. Arrangements for wedding going swimmingly – though Mummy looked a bit evasive when I asked if she’d be doing her amusing Cockney singing at the reception!

Nothing in the diary until late afternoon, so Snorty and I decide to have a picnic luncheon in Greenwich. From here, it is still possible to get an old-fashioned view of London.

Alas, the prospect of a jolly time immediately produces a deep sense of melancholy and hopelessness within me. It is something I notice more and more as I get older. Of course, one does not wish to stop progress. At the same time one can't help wondering if the Industrial Revolution was really worth it, in the long run...

Even the Spam sandwiches and Tizer cannot rouse me from my depression. Here we are in Greenwich, gazing upon the marvel that is St. Paul's Cathedral. Yet how hemmed in it seems with the uncouth detritus of a Godless Age. As Snorty points out, the proper place for a gherkin is in a luncheon hamper, "not strapped on to the medieval environs of the City like a monstrous sex aid."

It's not just the buildings that encroach upon Wren's masterpiece. There are new roads, bridges, pylons, telephonic masts, aeroplanes...poor Canaletto must be turning in his grave, again. It is hard to imagine that London before the last war must have had one of the most beautiful skylines of any great city, if those who recall it are to be believed. And, lest we forget, many of these people have now passed away, which adds gravity and authority to their testimony.

Apparently, the affinity between buildings and the earth, in spite of the City's immense size, was so strong that the houses looked almost as though they had grown out of the earth and had not been imposed upon it. Those of us who were lucky enough to have learned Latin will know that the word "slum" is derived from the verb "to thrive, organically".

Friday. Keynote speaker at a conference on tall buildings. I said skyscrapers were macho and adolescent, and incapable of reaching the soul as they are the wrong shape. I imagine that my presence was about as welcome as an elephant in a brothel!

I am not opposed to tall buildings per se. My concern is that they should be put where they fit properly, perhaps in large holes.

Saturday. Bugger. Have broken arm. Was making a point to someone on horseback and just sort of fell off.

Sunday. Ying tong ying tong ying tong ying tong, ying tong iddle-I-po. I recalled this line, penned by one of our greatest post-war Goons, as I stood staring out of my favourite sash window this morning, again.